


Yes, Father Andor

by YesCaptainAndor



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Convent, Alternate Universe - The Little Hours, Bondage, Catholic Guilt, Cunnilingus, Death, Eventual Smut, F/M, Inspired by a scene from Casanova, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nocturnal Emission, Novice Nun Jyn, Priest Cassian, Rebelcaptain - Freeform, Self-Flagellation, Tree Sex, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12978378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YesCaptainAndor/pseuds/YesCaptainAndor
Summary: Father Cassian Andor hears a troubling confession from a novice nun.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> RebelCaptain x "The Little Hours," a movie about hilarious shenanigans in a 14th century convent in Italy. 
> 
> Inspired by "Heaven Help The Fool" by RogueRevenant.

 

 

Garfagnana, Italy

1347

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

Father Cassian Andor stiffened in his seat within the tight confines of the confessional. Dim light filtered through the screen that separated him and the woman whose voice he had come to recognize over the past two months since he arrived at the convent.

“It has been three days since my last confession.”

She came to confession twice a week without fail, on Mondays and Thursdays. Always after supper, during the hour designated for personal reflection and spiritual reading.

“And what is it you would like to confess?”

“Yesterday, I walked by the garden, and I picked a peach and I ate the whole thing, and I didn't share it with my sisters.”

In the beginning, her confessions consisted of only the most venial of sins, touchingly whispered in the tortured tones of a true innocent. Over the past two weeks, however, the gravity of her transgressions had gradually escalated. Nothing serious, but what caused him concern was the intentionality that was starting to surface in her actions.

“Hmm, and you regret this?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Because it was greedy, wasn't it?”

“It was, Father…but it tasted so good.”

“My child….” Cassian knit his brow in consternation. “Food is God’s gift to us. While a necessary good for the health of our temporal bodies, it is not of eternal transcendental living. Therefore the excessive savoring of food is considered a sin. Do you understand?”

“I…no, Father. I ate only one peach. Surely that is not gluttony. And what evil is there in fully enjoying the gifts that God in his infinite wisdom has given us?”

“Taking food with too much eagerness, even when eating the proper amount, and even if the food is not luxurious, is a form of gluttony. According to St. Gregory, it is actually worse than over-indulgence because it shows attachment to pleasure most clearly.”

“And our capacity to experience pleasure, is this not a gift from God as well?”

“Well…yes, child, but a gift that should be handled with the utmost care, for the pursuit of pleasure all too often leads to the separation of a person from God's saving grace. It is not eating the peach, but the desire that is your sin. Turn your thoughts away from temporal pleasures, for they will surely lead you down the dark path.”

“Yes, Father.” Cassian sighed with more than a little relief that she seemed to readily accept his explanation.

“Is there anything else you would like to confess?”

“Yes, Father. I've been having impure thoughts.” Cassian's jaw tightened. He should have known this was coming.

“What brought about these impure thoughts?”

“The sermon last Sunday, about Saint Sebastian.”

“Ah yes. Martyred for converting Roman prisoners and fellow soldiers to Christianity.”

“I found a book about him in the library. I read that he was born a Christian nobleman and joined the Imperial Army undercover as a noble pagan so that he could minister to persecuted Christians. For his valor he was named a Captain of the Praetorian Guard and obtained access to the Emperor, but the whole time he acting as a spy for the underground resistance! His bravery and devotion to the faith are so inspirational.”

A girlish crush—Cassian allowed himself a smile. “Yes child, that’s all true and most admirable indeed. But how did this lead to impure thoughts?”

“Well, Father, the book had a picture of Saint Sebastian’s martyrdom. He was bound to a tree and his body pierced by arrows. Blood was pouring out of his wounds, but his face… his face was so beautiful.”

Cassian sighed and let his forehead drop into his hands. He knew which [picture](https://i.imgur.com/UfTBVWr.jpg/) she was talking about, and this wasn’t the first time this had happened. He’d already written to the Bishop urging him to prohibit the depiction of Sebastian as a single nude subject because it had aroused inappropriate thoughts amongst several members of his flock. He would have to speak with Mother Marea about culling such books from the library.

“Hmm. And have you acted on these thoughts?”

“I…I touched myself last night,” she whispered.

Cassian swallowed hard and tugged at his collar. He hated dealing with these kinds of confessions. The suffocating silence of the confessional was broken by the squeak of the hard wooden seat as he shifted uncomfortably.

“And do you regret this?”

“Yes, Father… but in truth, I couldn’t help it. It felt so good and…natural. Like eating a peach.”

“My child, sexual desire in itself is good, and is considered part of God's plan for humanity. But when sexual pleasure is sought for itself, isolated from its procreative and unitive purposes, it is separated from God's love. By giving in to lust you will be cast away from God’s grace and damned to eternal suffering. Make no mistake—it dominate your destiny. Consume you it will! You understand this, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, Father, I do.” Finally, she sounded appropriately penitent.

“And do you not wish to sit with God, his Son and the Holy Spirit in eternal glory?”

“Of course, Father!” she answered with vehemence.

“Then do you truly repent your sins and resolve to embrace God’s will without question?”

“I do, Father, with all my heart.”

Good. Well then, for your penance you will say fifteen _Ave Marias_. And you will abstain from one meal this week," he threw in for good measure. "I will now hear your Act of Contrition.”

As she began to murmur the prayer, Cassian shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. She was going to be trouble, this one—he just knew it. While her tone was always respectful, her persistent questioning alarmed him. He knew that she was a novice, from the white veil that he could see through the screen. In time, with close guidance, she would learn.

At the conclusion of her prayers, he absolved her of her sins with the traditional Latin formula that had been taught to him at the seminary in Rome: _“Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”_

“Amen,” she answered with fervor. He involuntarily looked up and caught a glimpse of green eyes, blazing intensely out of a small face like beacons in the night. He quickly looked away.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,” he said hurriedly, impatient for this particular confession to be over.

"His mercy endures forever."

"Go in peace, my child.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being a priest is hard.

Father Andor left the chapel with a sigh of relief. Acting as confessor to the seventeen other souls that inhabited the convent was not a significant burden, but this evening’s penitential service had dragged on interminably, and he was anxious to be done with the day. His heavy, dark cloak billowed as he strode purposefully across the cloisters, the flame from his oil lamp scattering the shadows as he approached. His steps rang out hollowly on the stone stairs as he made the ascent up to his cell, which was tucked away in a corner of the top floor of the convent.

Father Andor’s room was very much an extension of himself: utilitarian to the point of austerity. A single bed in a corner, a desk and a chair. A bookcase that held a few precious tomes, and a trunk in a corner that contained all his worldly goods, most of which consisted of a few changes of clothes. The bed was made up with military precision, and the room was spotless. The walls were unadorned but for a crucifix with a contorted Christ that hung across from the bed.

He lay down on the bed and shut his eyes, exhausted. In a few hours, he would rise at dawn to say Mass and to begin anew the cycle of daily life at the convent. It was a simple life–a life of communal and private prayer, sacred reading, study, manual labor and service to brethren. It was highly regimented, and most comforting to him in its utter predictability. Occasionally he might be called into one of the nearby villages to perform baptisms or administer last rites, but on the whole, life in a convent was a clockwork-like existence. He felt a certain freedom in surrendering his mind, body and soul to God and the demands of priesthood. He cherished the feeling of inevitability, of knowing with near certainty exactly where he would be at any given hour of the day. This intense desire for order, a compulsion, really, was borne out of a total rejection of the violence and chaos that was his life before he entered the priesthood. Upon joining the seminary, he turned his back on his former life and the rest of the world. There was a high price to pay, but once he surrendered to that choice, life became simple, ordered. Everything he did, he did for the Church. His entire existence now consisted of his responsibility for the seventeen souls that lived within the walls of the convent, his sole mission in life to save them from damnation and eternal suffering.

One soul in particular deeply troubled him now. The novice’s confession earlier this evening had left him shaken. Although he felt he had more than adequately answered her questions, the fact that she questioned him at all jarred him. It was outrageous! Nuns simply do not ask questions, and certainly not questions of a challenging nature. Clearly, her training as a postulant was deficient. She should never have been admitted to the convent, and if he ever found out who she was, he would have her sent home immediately.

_But it tasted so good._

An image appeared unbidden in his mind, of a pair of rosy lips parted over the cleft of a peach. Small white teeth, tearing into its tender flesh. Sweet, sticky juice dribbling down a pert chin, dripping onto a plump breast.

He opened his eyes and focused on the crucifix. The figure of Christ seemed to stare at him accusingly. He got out of bed, opened the trunk and retrieved a braided leather whip, worn and supple from years of use. He took off his shirt and knelt at the edge of the bed. Bowing his head, he kissed the handle of the whip reverently and murmured: “By the grace of your training, I will not be seduced.”

He gave himself fifteen lashes, then collapsed into bed and lost consciousness.

 

=================

 

“Cassian.” He was suddenly wide awake. The voice came from outside his door. He got up and opened it, but there was no one there.

“Cassian.” Candlelight danced across the stone walls and receded down the stairs. He pulled on his nightshirt and followed, ignoring the shadows that cavorted in his wake.

“Cassian.” The voice called softly from an alcove off the landing. He rounded the corner and saw her.

Her green eyes lanced through the darkness. Soft curls tumbled about her face, and her lips were luscious and shiny with peach juice. She offered him a bitten peach. Like a moth to the flame, he was drawn irresistibly into her orbit. He took the peach from her and bit into it, sucking on the sweet flesh, savoring every succulent morsel.

_It is not eating the peach, but the desire that is your sin._

His cock was hard. He was sucking on the sweet flesh of her neck, one hand fondling her breast, the other groping between her legs. He knelt down and fought his way through several layers of underskirts until he was clutching her ass and rubbing his face into the crotch of her drawers. Her cunt smelled like peaches. He pulled the fabric aside and lapped at her and sucked on her sweet flesh.

His cock throbbed. He rose and pinned her wrists above her head. They were naked. She was tied to a tree, wrists bound above her head. He hooked an arm underneath one of her legs, and plunged his cock into her sex at the same time that he thrust his tongue into her mouth. They moaned and fucked in unison.

The first arrow pierced through her ribs, and the second one nailed her upper arm to the tree. The third arrow buried itself in his buttock. They cried out and fucked in unison as arrows rained down upon them. He felt her sex convulse around his cock, and then he was falling, falling into an abyss. He clamped his mouth on hers and swallowed her cries as greedily as her cunt sucked every last drop of seed out of him. They came and died in unison, under a hail of arrows that covered them until not a single inch of flesh remained visible.

 

=================

 

He opened his eyes. The room was filled with the pinkish golden light of dawn and the sound of birds trilling their morning song. He stirred and felt the hot, sticky mess he had made in his pants. Christ on the cross was staring at him in silent accusation. He stripped off his soiled clothes and cleaned up as best as he could.

Naked in the freezing morning air, he picked up the whip from the floor where he had left it a few hours ago. He knelt down, kissed it, and whispered, “By the grace of your training, I will not be seduced.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you solve a problem like Jyn Erso?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Sister Jyn Erso cursed under her breath as she sprinted across the courtyard, late as usual for chapel. Her steps echoed loudly as she ran through the cloister, and she managed to slide into the last pew just as the nuns started singing the Kyrie. She kept her head down and hoped that Mother Marea would not notice.

 _Kyrie eleison_  
_Christe eleison_  
_Kyrie eleison_

Sister Jyn Erso could not sing to save her life. Not for lack of trying—when her guardian dropped her off at the convent two years ago, she tried in earnest to emulate the beautiful sounds that came out of the mouths of the other nuns. Try as she might, she could not hit the right notes, and it quickly became evident that she was terminally tone deaf. After three torturous weeks (including several one-on-one lessons), Sister Alessandra finally gave up and told her to just sing under her breath. That way, she could praise God without distracting the other nuns or destroying the perfection of their worship. Jyn took no offense—the solution suited her just fine, and she actually enjoyed listening to the nuns’ ethereal voices echoing majestically in the stone chapel. Her lips moved silently, following the words in the beautifully illuminated prayer book she held in her hands.

“Let us pray,” intoned the priest from the altar. The congregation murmured in unison: 

 _Blessed art thou, o lord._  
_Teach me to know thy will._  
_Be thy covenant ever my delight,_  
_thy words kept in memory._  
_Christ the lord was tempted and suffered for us._  
_Come, let us adore him._

Jyn surreptitiously stole a glance at the priest. He arrived a few weeks after Father Tomasso had been banished to a monastery in San Biagio, apparently due to some indiscretion. Jyn did not know the details—she was a loner by nature, which hardly encouraged the other nuns to share confidences. She did overhear Sister Ginevra tell Sister Alessandra that Father Andor’s last post had been at the Archdiocese of Florence, where he had been serving as secretary to the Archbishop himself. His arrival generated avid discussion amongst the nuns as to why such a lofty personage would have been sent to minister to an impoverished convent in a remote corner of the country. Geographically, politically, and ecclesiastically speaking, Garfagnana existed at the far edge of nowhere.

The new priest could not have been more different from Father Tomasso, with his jovial face framed by a halo of wild, frizzy gray hair, and his round, protruding belly. It was no secret that Father Tomasso partook of the sacramental wine every night, and one could sometimes smell it on his breath even during the day. Once, the confessional had actually reeked of alcohol! For some reason, Mother Marea chose to look the other way. Perhaps it was because Father Tomasso was himself the embodiment of Christian mercy. He was a flawed man, but he was invariably kind and sympathetic. Jyn had been sorry to see him go.

In contrast, the new priest was gaunt of face and dour of demeanor. Tall and lean, he cut an imposing figure and gave off a decidedly uncompromising air. He made it clear that he held himself to a high moral standard and demanded the same of others. Although his manners were unfailingly circumspect, he kept mostly to himself. This did not endear him to the nuns, and it fueled great intrigue and speculation as to the reason for his banishment to Garfagnana. With his solemn eyes, short, dark hair and neatly trimmed beard, Jyn thought him handsome in a severe sort of way. Watching him now, with his head bent over his hands, folded in prayer, she thought he exuded a saintliness that would have put Father Tomasso to shame. She snuck a peek at the nuns beside her. Fernanda and Alessandra were staring raptly at the priest, lips slightly parted. Ginevra’s eyes were screwed shut, and she muttered over the white knuckles of her tightly clasped hands. Jyn couldn’t help but roll her eyes and quickly looked down so that no one would see. Lord only knew what ridiculous notions these neurotic bitches were cooking up in their heads.

_Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed._

Finally, Communion. Mass would be finished soon, then they would gather in the refectory for breakfast. Jyn’s stomach growled audibly. She kept her eyes on the ground as she got into line to receive Communion.

_The body of Christ.  
Amen. _

_The body of Christ.  
Amen. _

It was her turn. As she raised her chin up and opened her mouth to receive the sacrament, she locked eyes with the priest. His eyes widened, and he froze almost imperceptibly. The moment passed, and he held the host up before her as if nothing were amiss.

“The body of Christ.”

“Amen.” He placed the host on Jyn’s tongue. She bowed her head and made the sign of the cross before returning to her place in the pew.

 

\--------

 

It was almost mid-day. Jyn staggered under the weight of a large bucket of water, filled to the brim, and dumped its contents into the donkey’s trough. Stormy, so named for his dark gray coat, placidly ambled up and started to drink. She stroked his neck affectionately. No one else wanted to look after the convent’s beast of burden, so the sole responsibility for Stormy’s care fell on her shoulders. He was a plodding, harmless animal, and she was happy to have a reason to get away from the nuns and their admonitions and superstitions. Once Stormy had his fill of water, she led him back to the barn and fed him his oats, then gave him an apple as a special treat.

In the beginning, she chafed at the nuns’ highly regimented routine, which was governed by observance of the Liturgy of the Hours. Composed of psalms, hymns, and readings that were performed seven times throughout the day, the Hours set the rhythm of life at the convent. The nuns would begin each day at dawn with Lauds, followed by Prime in the early morning, Terce at mid-morning, Sext at midday, None in the mid-afternoon, Vespers at dusk, and finally Compline at night before everyone retired. After Compline, the "Great Silence" began, during which the whole community observed silence throughout the night until everything began all over again at dawn the next day. Mass was usually held after Prime, and in the afternoons, there was half an hour of Lectio Divina, a scriptural reading and meditation. Novitiate class was on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on Sundays and holy days they celebrated the Missa Solemnis in Latin, which could take up to 3 hours.

At first, she thought she would go insane with all the praying. It was not in her nature to keep still and silent for hours on end, and her unconventional background certainly did not prepare her for the contemplative life. She had been orphaned at age eight—or so that’s what she preferred say. She remembered very little from her early childhood, but she vividly recalled the day their homestead was raided and her mother killed by a hail of arrows, and her father taken away by slave traders. She never saw her father again, and she liked to think he was dead—it made things easier. Her mother had instructed her to run and hide in a cave that was stocked with provisions in case of emergencies, and it was there that she was rescued several days later by Saw Gerrera, a family friend who led a band of itinerant insurrectionists. He raised her as his own child, and she traveled around the continent with him and his army, rallying an underground network of resistance fighters that rebelled against oppressive authority and agitated for social reforms. She became Saw’s trusted lieutenant and one of the most skilled fighters in his cadre, renowned for her expertise in hand-to-hand combat.

She became a liability once she turned 16 and started to come into womanhood. A newcomer had cornered her and attempted to assault her. She fought him off, but the scuffle caused a commotion, and the offender was banished from the group after a sound thrashing from Saw. Even though it was not her fault, Saw would not tolerate any disorder among the ranks of his soldiers. One day he unceremoniously dropped her off at the convent along with a big purse of silver to persuade the nuns to take her in. After such a harsh betrayal, she fell into a depression that over time evolved into resigned bitterness. Outside of the nunnery, there were no decent prospects for a girl like her with no money, no family, and no training in a skilled trade. The only thing she knew was how to fight, and no one in their right mind would ever hire a female soldier. This was only temporary, she told herself, until she could come up with a better plan.

In the meantime, she appeared to settle into life at the convent, submitting to the nuns' stringent rules and highly regulated routines. Inwardly, her rebellious spirit refused to accept the superstitious beliefs used by the Church to subjugate and maintain control of a submissive population. In the name of self-preservation, she kept these thoughts to herself and held them close. They grounded her and strengthened her against the soul-grinding routines designed to beat any wayward thoughts or desires into submission. Somehow she managed to hang on to her innate sense of humor and irony, and although she never showed it, she was laughing most of the time at the nuns' exhortations of morality and piety. She particularly took pleasure in taunting the priest with scandalous confessions for which she felt absolutely no contrition.

What did these men and women know, who had been shut away from the world most of their lives in service of an invisible god? She had seen the world and she had fully been in the world. She had known love, familial and carnal, and she knew the pain of loss only too well. She had witnessed true wickedness and real suffering. She had seen good men die, and she had dealt justice with her bare hands. She had been to Rome and seen the churches dripping with gold and jewels, while corrupt priests told starving men and women that they would receive their reward in the next life as long as they were meek and obedient. She knew how superstition and fearmongering were used to persecute innocent women, had witnessed the hypocrisy of the Grand Inquisitors at witch trials, and felt helpless rage at the excruciating deaths of condemned heretics at the stake. It was Saw's mission in life—and indeed hers—to fight back against religious oppression and injustice, and so it was the mother of all ironies that Saw had abandoned her in a convent.

Ultimately, it was the chores that saved her. Physicality was a significant part of her former life, and labor provided an opportunity for exercise as well as an outlet for her mental anguish. The nuns soon realized that Jyn was willing to take on the most menial of tasks, and whatever may have been lacking in her background, formal education, or prayerfulness was made up for by the tenacity with which she accomplished the chores that were assigned to her. In time, a silent pact was formed between Jyn and the other nuns. They assigned her the tasks that nobody wanted to do—taking care of the donkey, scrubbing the floors, washing endless loads of clothing and linens—and if she seemed distracted or was occasionally late to chapel, they generally left her alone, as long as she kept up a semblance of devotion and propriety.

Jyn’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by a rhythmic thwacking sound that came from the direction of the woodshed. Tending the garden had been added to her roster of duties after the last gardener quit, and no one other than she had any business messing about the woodshed. She decided to investigate, more out of boredom than curiosity.

As she rounded the corner leading up to the woodshed, she came upon the unexpected sight of the priest chopping firewood. She stopped short and drew back, then peeked around the corner. He was dressed in breeches and a plain, rough linen shirt. Her eyes widened in surprise. She had never seen a priest dressed in anything other than a cassock, or engaged in any sort of manual labor, for that matter. She watched, fascinated, as he expertly swung the axe back in a graceful, fluid arc and brought it down with enough force to send woodchips flying, splitting the wood straight down the middle each time. He added the firewood to a substantial pile stacked up neatly in a cart.

Steadily, methodically, relentlessly, he labored. His pace remained unchanged, but he progressively brought the axe down harder and harder, until he swung it with such brute force that the blade buried itself into the chopping block. He staggered back and let go of the axe. Gasping from his exertions, he braced his hands on his knees. Sweat poured down his face, and his drenched shirt stuck to his back. Once he caught his breath, he pulled off his shirt and mopped his face and chest with it, then draped it on a nearby bush and resumed chopping firewood.

Jyn’s mouth went dry. It had been a long time since she had seen a bared male torso in the flesh, and this one was a particularly excellent specimen. Her eyes drank in the sight of the priest’s sinewy arms wielding the axe, the muscles of his back and abdomen rippling with each downswing. He wasn’t heavily built like the beefcake Saint Sebastian in the picture that had precipitated her latest sin, but his lean body had an austere beauty to it, his movements imbued with lithe grace. As he raised the axe above his head, her eyes fixed on the nipples that punctuated his taut chest and followed the narrow trail of dark hair that started below his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his breeches. She bit her lip as she became conscious of a delicious heat pooling low in her belly.

The priest suddenly paused and lowered the axe, cocking his ear as if listening for something. Jyn pulled back behind the corner and remained perfectly still. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears—surely he could hear it—and she would die if she were discovered. After a while, the thwack of the axe resumed, and she slowly backed away, taking the utmost care not to step on any twigs that might give her away. As soon as she was well clear of the woodshed, she sprinted towards the barn, not caring if anyone saw her acting so indecorously.

She burst through the barn doors, ran past Stormy’s stall, and scrambled up the ladder to the hayloft. No one ever ventured up there after the haymaking season, and for this reason, it became her sanctuary. Breathless and sweaty from her run, she pulled off the wimple that covered her hair and the sides of her face and neck, then tossed it contemptuously to the ground. Sister Alessandra was busy with the postulants and wouldn’t be looking for her for at least another half-hour.

She went to the back of the room and pushed aside a bale of hay to reveal a small alcove built into the wall. She had discovered the hidden space soon after arriving at the convent, and used it to store a few personal belongings that she wanted to keep away from the nuns’ prying eyes. Her fingers brushed against a crystal secured to rawhide string—her mother’s necklace, the only remnant she possessed from her childhood. Her mother’s family was descended from a long line of pagan worshippers of the cult of Isis, and Jyn knew all the stories from the olden times—the gathering of the covens at Sabbats to celebrate the turning of the seasons, the fertility rites that ensured a bountiful harvest, the ceremonies that celebrated the lives of those who had passed on. As far as Jyn could remember, the only manifestation of her mother’s paganism was in healing, both through the use of herbs and through spiritual healing with the crystal pendant of her necklace. There were so many memories wrapped up in this necklace, some of the most wonderful, and some of the worst. One of her mother's last acts was to put the necklace around Jyn's neck before telling her to run for the cave—before she joined her husband in making a last stand against the raiders. The nuns would never understand, and she definitely had to keep this hidden away from them.

Lately, she also been using the niche to hide her illicit stash of fruit. The one good thing about gardening duty was the opportunity to squirrel away some delectable peaches and apples for herself and Stormy. She selected a plump peach, then plopped herself down on a fragrant bale of hay and settled down to enjoy the fruit. She couldn’t believe what she had just seen. That priest was decidedly…un-priestlike. She was now seeing him in an entirely different light. She smiled to herself and absently licked at the trail of peach juice that ran down her wrist.

She started as the barn door creaked loudly below. She crept to the opening in the floor of the hayloft and dropped down to a crouch to see who was invading her domain. Maybe it was that busybody Ginevra spying on her again.

It was the priest. He was unloading firewood from the cart into the storage area beside Stormy’s stall. She carefully stood up and started backing away. A floorboard creaked, and she froze.

“I know you’re up there, Sister,” he called out calmly. “Come down.”

Her eyes widened in panic and she dropped the peach. How could he know? He had to be bluffing.

“Would you please come down now.”

She remained silent, hardly daring to breathe.

“Are you really going to make me go up there?”

She looked around wildly, as if she didn’t already know there was no other exit aside from the opening in the floor. Even if she could fit through one of the tiny ventilation windows, it was at least a twenty-foot drop to the ground.

She heard him sigh loudly. “Very well. I’m coming up.”

She heard him start up the ladder, and frantically weighed her options. It was a small, confined space. If she tried to hide, she would be discovered in no time and humiliated, possibly punished. Since she couldn’t hide, she would have to lie. She had the presence of mind to shove the bale of hay back into the corner to conceal her hiding place, and whirled around just as the priest’s head appeared through the hole in the floor.

“Sister! What are you doing up here?” The priest hauled himself up and stared at her in consternation. He had recognized her at communion and was fairly certain that she was the novice who had challenged him during her confession. Still, the last thing he expected was to see her up in the hayloft, disheveled with bits of straw in her hair.

“Father Andor.” She scrambled to genuflect before him, her cheeks flaming. At least the man had the grace to put his shirt back on. They were standing so close, too close to each other in the confined space. She dared not look him in the eyes, but instead settled her gaze on the open neck of his shirt. Bad move. 

“Where is your veil, Sister?”

“My veil? Oh, my veil!” Jyn grabbed it off the floor and smiled weakly. “I uh, it was quite hot.” She fanned herself half-heartedly with the limp fabric.

“And just what exactly are you doing up here? Everyone will be gathering in the chapel for Sext very soon.”

“I…I was gathering hay.” 

“Hay?”

“Yes, hay. For Stormy. The donkey.”

“Stormy the donkey?” He eyed her suspiciously.

“Yes. I’m in charge of the donkey, you see, and he’s… he’s out of hay. I really must carry on with my duties. Good day to you, Father!” She grabbed a bale of hay and pushed past him, then threw it down the hole and quickly clambered down after it.

Father Andor did a quick survey of the room. Mother Marea did mention that one of the novices was responsible for the donkey’s care. Looking outside the window, he saw her running full tilt all the way across the meadow, veil flapping in her hand. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement as he watched her slip into the kitchen door. He turned to leave when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a half-eaten peach lying on the floor. He picked it up and stared at it, frowning. That little wretch—she lied to him—she wasn't sorry at all. The fruit was oozing fragrant juice and appeared to be freshly bitten. The delicious aroma made his mouth water in spite of himself. His lips twisted in self-disgust, and he flung the peach out the window.

 

\--------

 

That evening at vespers, Jyn couldn’t bring herself to look at the priest. She kept her eyes downcast the whole time, hands tightly clasped before her breast. As soon as the liturgy was over, she approached Mother Marea and begged to be excused from supper, pleading exhaustion. Mother Marea took in Jyn’s flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, laid a hand on her forehead and sent her straight off to bed, promising to send up some supper later.

Jyn lay on her bed, tossing fitfully for hours. She burned with a low fever that was only slightly alleviated by the bowl of soup and bread that Sister Ginevra delivered to her room. In her fevered state, her traitorous thoughts strayed to the priest. The image of his naked, finely-muscled torso burned behind her eyelids. She thought about the two of them alone in the hayloft, and what might have happened had they been just ordinary people, unfettered by the rules of monastic life. She imagined his wiry arms enfolding her in a tight embrace, his sensual lips twisted in a sardonic smile, kissing her and kissing her until she was breathless and dizzy with want. Her hand drifted down between her legs and pressed against the wetness. She bit back a moan—Sister Fernanda, in the next room, was a light sleeper.

She thought about his hands running all over her body, his fingers expertly unbuttoning her dress and stripping her down to her thin chemise. His lips lavishing the sensitive areas of her neck as he palmed her breasts, impatiently tearing her chemise open so that he could lick and suck at her jutting nipples. She sighed voluptuously she pictured him lifting her onto a bale of hay and spreading her legs, licking up into the core of her pleasure with broad swipes of his tongue, feasting on her nectar until they were both panting with desire.

Jyn hissed as she rubbed a finger against her clit, imagining the brush of his cock against her entrance. She fucked herself with one finger, then added another, bearing down until she was grinding against her knuckles. She imagined him thrusting into her the way he chopped wood – slowly, purposefully, and powerfully. She grit her teeth as she forced herself to draw out her pleasure, building up delicious heat and tension. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she quickened the strokes of her fingers, and in her mind’s eye she saw him [ fucking her](https://i.imgur.com/i7L3Vyi.gif%0A) vigorously against the bale of hay, using its springiness to increase the momentum of his thrusts. Grabbing onto her hips, rocking her back and forth on his cock, slamming into her and driving deeper and deeper each time.

Jyn’s breathsgrew more erratic with each thrust of her fingers, and soon she felt her desire spiraling out of control. As she felt her orgasm approach, her thoughts dissolved into a riot of incoherent images. The priest's head bent in prayer, cheekbones thrown into sharp relief by a ray of sunlight. Presiding at the altar, lifting his gaze up solemnly as he raised the chalice for the blessing. Locking eyes with him at communion, and opening her mouth to accept the host that he placed on her tongue. Being closeted with him in the intimate confines of the confessional, thrilling at the sensuous timbre of his voice. Standing so close to him in the hayloft that she could see his collarbones, revealed by the open neck of his shirt, glistening with sweat. The image of his muscular, half-naked body, slamming the axe down and splitting a log clean down the middle—

She came apart and arched off the bed, mouth frozen in a silent scream, hips bucking mindlessly as she rode out her orgasm.

Once limp and emptied, she lifted her fingers to her mouth and tasted herself, shivering with a frisson of pleasure. With a smile on her face, she fell into a deep sleep.

 


End file.
